


sometimes letting go is part of loving, (but I never want to)

by itsmylifekay



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because Jesse Manes is a monster, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:37:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: In the wake of Michael and Maria and alien conspiracies, Alex is just trying to keep moving forward, to do what he can to fix the mess his life has become. That generally means avoiding Michael. Unfortunately, the universe has other plans.Or, five time Michael holds on and one time he doesn't.(it ends well, I promise)





	sometimes letting go is part of loving, (but I never want to)

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up being quite a bit longer than i was expecting so uh, enjoy?

Alex is sitting on the porch, staring up at the dark sky and trying to ignore the subtle throbbing in his temples, when his phone starts rattling on the wooden armrest beside him. He glances at the caller ID and feels his shoulders tense when he sees its Maria. It immediately dredges up a whole lot of un-confronted emotions and pain, along with a suspicion that’s only firmed when he finally answers with a tired hello.

“Hey.” She at least seems just as worn down, just as reluctant. “Could you come get him, please?”

She doesn’t have to say a name; _he_ still sits like a heavy weight between them.

“I’m assuming you mean at the Pony and not your place.” Alex can’t help himself, can’t help the way his chest constricts in pain, or the small flash of guilt when Maria sighs on the other end of the line.

“He and I aren’t—“ She stops, takes another breath. “He hasn’t been at mine in a long time.”

He stays silent, waiting, part of him praying that she’ll give up and he’ll once again be left alone with his thoughts and the night sky. Another part of him is already halfway down the driveway, as trapped as ever in Michael’s pull, in that inescapable gravity that always sends him crashing to a hard, unforgiving end.

“Please, Alex. He’s too drunk to stay here and I can’t close up for a few more hours. I’m not asking you to talk, just help me get him back to the airstream.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, headache growing by the second. “Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” There’s a slight edge to her voice that Alex hasn’t heard in a while. That he’s missed. They never used to have to be so reserved around each other, so afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Max would just throw him in the drunk tank, Isobel is still on her vacation, Liz is all tied up with Rosa and would just end up calling Max. So who do you want me to call, Alex? _Kyle_?”

Alex sighs and reaches for his crutches, switching the phone to speaker and tucking it into the front pocket of his unbuttoned flannel before heading inside.

“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t bad. If there was some other way.”

“Alright,” he says, suddenly exhausted despite the insomnia that had driven him out to the front porch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just make sure he doesn’t start anything in the meantime.”

There’s a brief pause and Alex almost doesn’t catch Maria’s mumble of ‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’ He decides he’s too tired to push and they sign off soon after, Alex putting his prosthetic back on before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

He spends the drive over wondering what Michael could’ve gotten himself into for Maria to call, just how deeply he’s buried himself in a bottle of tequila, beer, acetone, god only knows. He’s imagining loud, obnoxious singing, sloppy flirting, maybe even finding him passed out on top of the bar or in the corner of the bathroom.

He’s not prepared for what he actually finds. Maria waves him over as soon as he enters, calling his name over the usual noise of the bar. Michael lifts his head from the sticky bar top, locking eyes with Alex as Maria comes around the bar to try and hoist Michael to his feet. He’s not prepared because Michael’s eyes are red-rimed and wet, his bottom lip swollen like he’s been biting back sobs. But when he looks at Alex, there’s so much blind, delirious _hope_ on his face that Alex wants to be sick, wants to turn around and leave before either of them can crash and burn any worse than they already have.

Instead, he forces himself forward, wedges himself beneath Michael’s other arm so they can haul him out to the car. He and Maria don’t exchange anything more than a look, both knowing now isn’t the time or place to get into things, not needing words to reach a silent agreement that yeah, Michael needs to go home. Needs to be watched to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.

The weight of that responsibility sits heavier on his shoulders than Michael’s drunken deadweight ever could. He nods at Maria as he pulls away, turning on the radio for the drive to Michael’s airstream in the feeble hope that the background noise will keep Michael quiet.

It’s only partially successful. Michael spends the first half of the drive just staring at the side of Alex’s face, like he can’t believe he’s there, his eyes wide and focused even as his head lolls slightly on the headrest of the passenger seat. He wipes his face a few minutes in, catches lingering tears on his forearm and hitches in an unsteady breath, but he doesn’t cry.

God, is Alex glad he doesn’t cry. It’s breaking him enough having to see the evidence of it all over Michael’s face, he doesn’t know what he’d do if Michael actually broke down in front of him. As it is, he’s glad for the distraction of driving, watching the road appear in his headlights and disappear in the rearview mirror. Michael’s stare still feels like a brand against his skin.

Then, for no reason that Alex can detect, something shifts. Michael sits up a bit straighter in his seat and looks at Alex, really looks at him with more focus than he has since they first locked eyes at the bar.

“Alex?” His voice is low and gravelly and _wrecked._ Like he’s just woken up. Like he’s just had a dick in his throat. Like he’s been crying. Alex tries not to think about how he knows what all those things sound like.

He keeps his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel.

Michael looks around like he’s not quite sure where he is or how he got here. He turns back to Alex, eyes still just as wide and unnerving. “You’re here.”

Like he can’t believe it. Like it’s a dream. Like it’s a dream he’s had before only to wakeup to a nightmare.

And it’s amazing just how badly two words can hurt.

“I’m taking you home.”

Michael continues like he hasn’t even heard him. “You’re really here, aren’t you?” He reaches out like he wants to touch then seems to think better of it, pulling back his hand.

They drive over a rough patch and Michael groans, the slight sway of his shoulders the only warning Alex gets before he has to pull over to the side of the road and reach across Michael to throw open the door. Thankfully, even this drunk Michael has enough of a survival instinct to puke outside the car.

Alex stares out the windshield as Michael heaves a couple more times, then looks over when he hears him cough and spit, the slam of the door behind him. He watches him groan and settle back in his seat.

“Think you got it all out? Or should we wait a few more minutes?”

Michael blinks then turns to look at him slowly, like he’d forgotten he was there. A smile overtakes his face as soon as he sees him.

“Alex,” he says again. “Alex, Alex, Alex.”

Alex pulls back out onto the road, turns the radio up a little louder.

This time, Michael gives into the temptation to touch, puts one warm hand on Alex’s bicep and curls his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re _here._ ”

Alex carefully suppresses the shudder that wants to roll up his spine, grunts in acknowledgment and goes as fast as he can while still allowing for safe, quick pullovers in case Michael needs to empty more of his stomach.

Michael’s fingers slide lazily off his arm and he slouches further in his seat, eyes darting around the interior of the car, out the windows, then settling back on Alex’s face.

“This is your car.”

Alex hums in agreement. “Do you remember getting here?”

Michael squints, shakes his head once then flops back against the seat. He stares out the front windshield with his brows scrunched together, deep in thought, before he turns back to Alex.

“Technically _I’m_ here. That’s how that works. Because it’s your car.”

“Sure,” Alex glances at him from the corner of his eye, sees how he’s drooping slightly. “And we’re almost to your airstream, so if you could stay awake until then that’d be great.”

Michael just hums and settles further into the seat, looking at Alex from behind hooded eyes. “Almost forgot how pretty you are.” He looks at Alex like he knows he’s not allowed to touch. “Especially at night. Love the fucking stars, but still only wanna look at you.”

Heat creeps up the back of Alex’s neck, spills across his cheeks, and makes his chest go tight. He pushes it down and stares at the road. Michael was drunk, that’s all. He wouldn't be saying any of this sober. And while things might not have ended well between them, Alex still had no desire to see Michael embarrass himself or say something he’d really regret.

Thankfully that’s the end of Michael’s confessions, the other man staying silent and half asleep until Alex pulls up in front of the airstream and cuts the engine. He gets out then goes around to the other side to help Michael, biting back a hiss of pain when Michael basically falls in his arms and sends pain shooting up his thigh. The short walk to the trailer isn’t much better, but at least once they’re inside the space in small enough for Alex to basically push Michael into falling on the bed.

Except, Michael’s still got one hand fisted in the fabric of Alex’s undershirt, fingers tangled from when he’d first grabbed on while getting out of the car. It means Alex gets pulled down with him, caught off guard and barely catching himself a foot away from Michael’s face. He straightens back up with a frown, trying to pry Michael’s hand away and getting nowhere.

“Alex,” the other man whines. He looks up at Alex with those big, pitiful eyes, still a little puffy and red from crying. His hand clenches tighter in Alex’s shirt.

Alex sighs and shifts to sit on the edge of the bed. He looks around the apartment for something to distract Michael with, anything to grab his attention just long enough for Alex to free his shirt, but before he can he hears another soft whimper. And it’s from Michael, of course it is, now curled around Alex’s back and still clinging to that bit of fabric, stretching it out and completely unrepentant as he drifts off to what appears to be a fitful sleep.

Alex shrugs out of his flannel then carefully tugs the undershirt over his head, relinquishing it entirely to Michael’s hold. Then he stands, tugs his flannel back on and buttons it up against the cold as he settles in on the kitchen floor to wait for morning. Michael tugs the shirt closer to his chest, buries his face in it and breathes a little deeper, body losing a bit of its tension.

Alex looks away and pretends like that doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

He leaves as soon as the sun starts to shrine through the windows, highlighting Michael’s curls and the curve of his back in golden silhouette, pushing the darkness of the night behind them. He leaves as soon as he’s sure Michael’s going to be okay.

He leaves the shirt though, figures Michael already owns so many parts of him. What’s one more?

\--

A couple months go by and Alex doesn’t get any more calls. He wonders if Michael’s stopped drinking so much, or if Maria’s just decided to call other people, the awkwardness of having to ask Alex outweighing the benefits of getting Michael scraped off the bar floor, especially now that Isobel is back in town. He wonders, but he doesn’t ask, makes sure that part of himself is carefully tucked away behind a metaphorical steel wall.

He meets with Kyle, works on all the information they’d gotten at Caulfield. There’s still too many hidden facets of Project Shepherd, all tangled together in a sticky web, for him to dismantle it the way he wants, burn it to the ground. But he doesn’t give up, spends the majority of his free time working on digging deeper.

He rarely shows his face at any of the group meetings. Kyle puts up with being the intermediary, gives Alex knowing looks as he takes whatever new information they’ve gathered and walks out the door, and Liz doesn’t push him either, just smiles at him when he shows up at the Crashdown and gives him extra fries when he stays past closing with a manila folder tucked into his bag to wait for everyone else to show up.

It isn’t until he gets a call from Liz and finds himself struck with a very strong sense of déjà vu that he’s really forced to confront everything that he’s locked away for _later_. To feel the full brunt of his care and worry for Michael slam into him like a tidal wave.

Because apparently, Liz and Michael had decided to experiment with another serum. And apparently said serum was strong enough not just to dampen powers, but to dampen _everything_. One wrong move and Michael had been hit with the alien equivalent of a tranq-dart.

Alex sighs and wonders if Roswell will ever manage to be a normal town, or at least as normal as an alien crash site could ever hope to be.

“You know I'm not his babysitter, right?”

He’d been on his way to meet Kyle at the bunker, but turns the car around while Liz talks, heading towards the lab instead. Kyle will understand.

“I doubt we’d be in this mess if you were. He always listens better when you’re involved.” There’s an indignant sound somewhere in the background and Alex can practically picture the look Liz must shoot Michael’s way as she talks over him. “Which is why I need you to come here. Now.”

“If you just want him to listen, call Isobel. I’m sure she’ll set him straight.”

There’s another upset noise in the background and Alex realizes he must be on speaker. Liz just sighs.

“That’s what I said, but he insisted she’d just ask ‘what happened to staying away from alien serums, Michael? What happened to no more stupid mistakes, Michael?’ You’re the only one he’d let me call.”

“Uh huh.” He’s sure he sounds less than impressed, but honestly he can’t find it in himself to pretend otherwise.

Alex isn’t blind. He’s realized that ever since he helped Michael back to his trailer, Michael’s been trying to talk to him, trying to get Alex in one place long enough to reopen and examine old wounds. And Alex appreciates the effort, appreciates that Michael still wants him to be a part of his life, but he just isn’t ready.

He isn’t ready to talk about why Michael did what he did, _what_ he and Maria did together. Not when he’s just started to move past it. When he’s starting to reconcile the betrayal he’d felt and the fact that he’d finally walked away from Michael enough times to ruin whatever they’d had between them. That guilt is lessening, but it still sits too heavily on his shoulders for him to want to start digging around.

He can be in the same room as Michael without feeling a hot dagger in his chest. That’s progress. But he doesn’t know how to tell Michael to be patient without opening the whole festering mess. So he just hasn’t said anything.

The others are mostly aware of the circumstances, so even though Alex feels his chest tightening with every moment he gets closer to the lab, he knows Liz wouldn’t have called if she didn’t really need some help. Exactly how much help _Alex_ would need by the end of it in the form of alcohol and avoidance remained to be seen.

Michael is sitting on one of the lab tables when Alex arrives. He doesn’t look too bad, mostly tired, so Alex turns to Liz first and raises a brow.

She looks even more tired than Michael.

“I just need you to watch him, make sure he doesn’t get worse.” She’s moving around as she talks, half-productive and half anxious pacing. “We changed the formula so it shouldn’t be destructive, but I’m working on an antidote just in case. If we’re lucky, it’ll wear off in an hour or two. It only absorbed through his skin so we’ve at least got that going for us.”

They both look over to Michael. He’s still sitting on the table, but it looks like he’s gearing up to try and stand. Alex goes to block him before that happens, planting his feet a safe distance away and frowning at the way Michael sways as he readjusts to look up into Alex’s face.

His eyes have that same far-away, reddened look of the very tired or very sick.

He’s expecting Michael to say something, to make a joke or try and bring up everything that’s happened now that he’s got Alex pinned down. But he stays silent, just looks over at Alex every now and again as if he’s drinking him in, eyes wide and dark and entirely too honest.

Slowly, Alex relaxes, lets himself watch Liz work and stops trying to think through a hundred potential conversations. He watches Michael, too, makes sure he stays upright and alert.

It’s during one of these checks that he notices the telltale glisten of sweat at Michael’s hairline. It’s been about an hour and he can’t help but worry there’s been some change, that the serum is doing some kind of internal damage. Without thinking about it, he takes a step closer and puts the back of his hand to Michael’s forehead, biting the inside of his lip at the way Michael groans and leans into the touch.

Michael’s always been warm, but the heat coming off his skin now is ridiculous.

“Feels so good,” Michael mumbles, leaning further into Alex. He outright moans when Alex adds his other hand, pushing back sweaty curls and cupping the sides of his face to get a better look.

“Pretty sure you’re running a fever,” Alex says. “Ever had one of those before?”

Michael shakes his head no, using the movement to not-so-subtly push closer.

Alex sighs, looks over to Liz who’s been quietly watching their exchange.

“For now just try to cool him down,” she says. “Thankfully this serum is close enough to the old one that I should be able to just modify the original antidote, too. I’m still hoping it’ll burn off on it’s own, but I should have something to give him if he’s not back to normal in another hour or two.”

She keeps working while she speaks, checking things in her notebook, double-checking test tubes sitting out in neat little rows. He gives her a nod of acknowledgment and gently pushes Michael to a more upright position, ignoring the small sound of protest he gets in lieu of finding a small towel to wet in the sink.

The sound Michael makes when Alex wipes it across his face then drapes it over the back of his neck could barely be described as human. It makes a small smile tug at the corners of Alex’s lips.

“That feel better?”

Michael hums in response, reaches out for Alex and nearly falls face first to the floor before Alex takes a quick step forward and catches him by the shoulders. Michael’s hands wrap around his waist, tugging him in those last few inches so Michael can bury his face in Alex’s stomach.

Alex sighs and pushes his hands through Michael’s hair, grabbing the bottle of water he’d brought over with the towel and pressing it gently to Michael’s cheek.

“Think you can try and drink some of this?”

Michael makes a vaguely grumbling sound, paws at Alex’s hip a few times to get himself levered back up, then reaches for the water bottle. His other hand is still resolutely clamped at the waistband of Alex’s jeans, so Alex has to twist off the cap, giving Michael a very unimpressed look as he does. But Michael drinks the water, gets down almost half before Alex cuts him off, tells him to wait a few minutes then try and drink the rest.

The last thing he needs is Michael throwing up, even if it is just water. He’s not sure he could haul Michael over to the sink halfway across the room before he made a mess of the floor.

So they wait. Michael buries his face back into the soft fabric of Alex’s shirt, takes deep breaths and sags further into him, going boneless until Alex nudges him a few minutes later to finish the rest of the water. Then he’s right back to napping with Alex as a very reluctant and upright pillow.

“How’re you two doing over there?”

Alex hears the laughter in Liz’s voice and rolls his eyes, shoots her a look that clearly says he knows that she knows _exactly_ how well this situation is going over. She just waggles a pointed eyebrow back.

Of all the ways Alex thought his night might end up, this definitely wasn’t one of them. He stares out over the lab, counting lights and cupboards and his own breaths until he feels Michael stirring against him. They’re nearing the two-hour mark and Alex sends up a silent prayer that Michael’s turned the corner.

Fingers clench and press into his hips, tugging experimentally at where Michael’d managed to get his thumbs hooked into Alex’s belt loops, then Michael pulls back and sits up with a groan. He blinks up at Alex then smiles sleepily.

“You’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” Alex agrees. He presses his hand to Michael’s forehead, relieved at the lack of worrying heat. “You can thank me later for keeping you from taking a nosedive on the floor.”

Michael’s smile goes a bit smaller, a bit more knowing. He pulls at Alex’s belt loops. “Didn’t want to leave me with your pants this time? I’m sure Liz would’ve enjoyed the show.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Liz has been busy making an antidote in case you were poisoned.”

He tries to take a step back but Michael doesn’t release his hold, just smiles up at him innocently before turning to Liz.

“Told you we didn’t need to call Max or Isobel.”

“Yeah, just a human body pillow.” Liz puts a hand on her hip and shakes her head. “If I’d known you were going to sleep the whole time, I would’ve just left you on the floor.”

Michael lets out a squawk at that and Liz breaks, laughing and saying she’s glad he’s feeling better. Alex lets himself bask in the moment. Having the three of them together, laughing, is a small glimpse of a future Alex has been working towards. One where things aren’t so complicated, where they can all just _be._

It reminds him that he was supposed to be working towards that future tonight.

He takes a steadying breath. “I should get going. Kyle and I were supposed to go over some files in the bunker tonight.”

Never mind that he’s already called Kyle and told him they had to reschedule. He could always go and work alone, work until he fell asleep on the keyboard without Kyle there to pull him away, force him home.

Michael’s hands tense, pulling him ever so slightly closer. There’s a slight tremble to them as well, whether from exhaustion or fear or whatever was in the serum. He won’t look up at Alex’s face but Alex can easily read the line of his shoulders. It says _stay._

So he stays, if only for another hour.

\--

When Alex comes to, the first thing he registers is a voice. There’s a steady stream of words from above him, a franticness in their tone that makes him take notice, makes him think of scared soldiers and desert sands. Makes him claw his way up out of the thick, silent blackness into the screaming pain of reality.

It hits him like a brick wall. His teeth clench and his back arches, struggling to bite back the yell trying to force itself from his throat because his whole body is on _fire._

He can’t even tell where the pain is coming from, it’s too much, everywhere. It’s like every fiber of skin, muscle, and bone is burning all at once. But he forces his eyes open, looks up at the glaring sun and takes in the sand around him, the dark stain of blood. The voice above him speaks with more urgency.

“- _ex_! Alex, please.” He turns towards the sound of his name. “Please look at me, I’m right here.” The words take meaning and he tries to make his eyes focus, struggling for a moment before he finds a face framed in hectic curls.

“Michael?” His voice is slurred, horrible, but the man above him lets out a choked sob, smiles brokenly like Alex has just done something wonderful and terrible all at once.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s Michael. You with me?”

Alex nods, or at least he thinks he does. Then he tries to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony rolling through him.

This time he can’t hold back the scream.

A hand is immediately on his shoulder, pushing him back down, holding him against the hot, wet sand. He lifts just his hands instead, finds one of them tacky with his own blood, stained an awful color where he’s pried it off his side, the other he can’t lift at all, looks over and finds it held tightly in Michael’s grasp.

“I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay.” Michael is still talking to him, reassurances and soothing words that come in and out of Alex’s awareness and understanding. “You’ve just gotta hold on until Max and Kyle get here, okay? You’ve gotta hold on.”

Alex swallows and the taste of blood is thick and metallic in the back of his throat, on his tongue. It hurts to think, to focus, and he has no idea how he got here.

None of those are good signs.

He blinks and the sun is bright in his eyes, he blinks and Michael has cast him into shadow, bent over and repeating his name. One of his hands is still holding Alex’s, the other is on Alex’s side, pressing down in a way Alex is vaguely aware should be painful.

“Michael?” He has to ask, has to be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s conjured Michael from air while bleeding out on the sand.

“Yeah, Alex.” Michael sounds like he’s crying. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s Michael.”

Michael squeezes his hand and Alex tries to squeeze back, realizes his grip is alarmingly weak in the way Michael’s face crumples.

“It’s gonna be okay, Alex” he says. “You’ve just gotta hang on a bit longer. Stay with me.”

He wants to say something, say that he doesn’t want to leave, that he’s _never_ wanted to leave, not really. Even if he’s wanted to go, he’s never wanted to leave Michael behind. But he can’t quite get his mouth to work, can’t connect his lungs to his throat and his tongue feels heavy and slow. He squeezes his hand instead.

He blinks and the world goes dark, comes to him in disembodied voices like he’s trapped below a sheet of ice.

“I can’t lose him, Max. I can’t!”

“His heart’s beating, try to stop as much of the bleeding as you can. Start internal.”

“He’s losing too much blood—”

“—need to move him.”

“—not letting go, not until he—”

He blinks and his body is heavy, floating in a way he’s come to learn means heavy drugs and sterile sheets. There’s no more voices, but he can hear the sound of someone else breathing in the room. He can feel a steady warmth against the palm of his hand, between the knuckles of his fingers.

He manages to keep his eyes open long enough to take in the room, the machines around his bed and Michael slumped in the chair beside him. A wave of safety washes over him and he feels himself slipping back into the soft, painless dark. He just makes out the beeping of a machine and the sound of hurried footsteps, his name in a familiar voice, but then the world is dark again and he’s floating beneath the ice.

“Hey, so, uh, according to Kyle you’ve already come out of the drugs, most likely woke up at some point then fell right back asleep. Kinda pissed I wasn’t awake for that, but I hope you realized I was here.” Pressure on his hand, warm and persistent. “I hope you wanted me to be.”

Alex thinks back over the last few months, all of the times he and Michael have danced around each other, have pushed and pulled and worked to reach some kind of balance. They’re friends, now. Alex is confident in that. He can see Michael and smile and not feel a weight in his chest. He’s watched as Michael becomes freer as well, stops looking at Alex like he’s in physical pain, like he’s hollowed out and broken.

He thinks back to all the good memories they’ve made together to start outweighing the bad.

And his mind is still hazy, thoughts and memories hard to grasp, but he remembers the relief he’d felt seeing Michael’s face, that bright point piercing through all the pain.

He works to pull himself closer to the surface, chipping at that last thin, frozen layer before reemerging, taking a breath. He squeezes Michael’s hand. A machine starts beeping somewhere to his left.

“Alex?”

His eyes open slowly, come into focus even slower than that. But the first thing he really truly _sees_ is Michael leaning over him, face so filled with hope that Alex doesn’t know what to say, what to do.

Then Kyle comes into the room, face full of the same kind of frantic emotion. He’s at Alex’s side in an instant, talking softly and asking Alex if he remembers where he is, what happened, how much pain he’s in.

Michael holds water to his lips with his free hand, keeps holding on tight with the other. He doesn’t let go and Alex doesn’t either. Not even when Kyle looks down at their joined hands with a pleased, knowing smirk.

“Officially, you’ll be discharged in a few days with strict orders of bed-rest and 24/7 assistance.” He makes a note on his chart and fixes Alex with a look, makes him sweat it out for a minute before clicking his pen and shoving it back in his pocket. “Unofficially, Max will meet you at the cabin and you’ll need to stay out of town for a few weeks and we’ll bring you supplies when you need them.” He points his finger accusingly. “And no more solo missions. I don’t need anymore of your blood on my hands for the rest of my life.”

Alex frowns. “That bad?”

“You were technically dead before Max got there.” Michael squeezes his hand tighter. “So I’m with Kyle, no more solo missions.”

“You’re agreeing with each other?” He teases, just for the twin glares it gets him. There’s a warmth in his chest that he clings to, that makes him feel safe and tired and heavy in all the best ways. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Kyle puts a hand on his shoulder. “Turns out we see pretty eye to eye when it comes to you putting yourself in danger.”

“As in we don’t like it. You’re not leaving our sight for at least a month, private.”

Alex feels himself smile, a twitch of his lips that he can’t quite control as his eyes blink, heavy, slow. Kyle’s hand is steady on his shoulder. Michael’s hand is a point of heat against his own.

He drifts, tethered but floating.

He blinks. Time passes.

Michael doesn’t let go.

\--

It’s nearly midnight and Alex is down in the bunker, caught up in work and ignoring the slight throbbing in his head and the itchiness of his eyes in exchange for five more minutes, for getting one step closer to burying Project Shepherd in the ground. That’s been his default state for the last few months. If he’s not working or taking care of things around the cabin, he’s here, hunched over the computer and glaring daggers at the screen.

He’s never really known how to stop, how to relax _knowing,_ somewhere in the back of his head, that there’s work to be done and danger lurking a little too close to home. He can’t let his guard down. Not when there’s so much at stake.

So he’s down in the bunker, again.

Michael’s with him this time, tinkering with something on the far side of the room, keeping up just enough noise that Alex doesn’t startle when he comes over and puts his hands on Alex’s shoulders.

“You about done for the night?”

Alex makes a noncommittal sound. Technically, he could’ve been done hours ago. Alex doesn’t think he’ll ever be done.

Michael pushes a hand through Alex’s hair, coaxing him to lean his head back against the soft warmth of Michael’s stomach. Alex lets him, goes easily enough after pressing a few last keys, willing to take a break if only because the throbbing between his temples is getting distracting. His eyes are strained and dry from looking at the screens.

And Michael’s been around Alex enough that he knows. He slides his hand over Alex’s eyes and the heat is addictive, makes him go a bit boneless. It doesn’t take long after that for the long day to crash into him.

He groans and Michael pulls away his hand to rub gently at one of his temples. He waits for Alex to open his eyes before he licks his lower lip and asks.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

Alex stares up at him. Stares up at his warm eyes, his small smile, the curls that are hanging across his forehead. He wraps his fingers around Michael’s wrist, feels the pulse there, reminds himself that _this_ is one of the things he’s fighting for.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just let me close things down here.”

“Okay.” Michael gives his shoulders one last squeeze before he steps away, starts putting his own project away and not-so-subtly watching Alex out of the corner of his eye.

And, annoying as it is, Alex has to admit it’s fair. Kyle and Michael hadn’t been joking when they said they were going to be keeping a close eye on Alex after his injury. They checked in on him constantly. And with Kyle busy at the hospital, more often than not it was Michael who showed up at Alex’s door. Who came down to the bunker to drag him back up into the light of day.

It meant Michael was now well accustomed to Alex’s long hours, to the way he’d push himself, promise he’d be just a few more minutes and then take a few more hours instead. Kyle would always threaten to tranquilize him, would stride in and throw away whatever caffeine Alex was using to keep himself awake. He would come at Alex with logic, about the effects of sleep deprivation and chronic stress, how going out and enjoying his life was the biggest victory he could ever get over his dad.

Michael came from a different angle, would always wait Alex out, either until he was distracted enough for Michael to coax him into doing something else, or until Alex fell asleep, out of it enough for Michael to carry him out to the truck or to bed.

Ever since his near-death, Michael stuck to him like honey, golden and sweet and equally as hard to resist. They’d never been good at communicating, but the incident had knocked down a wall between them, torn open scabs and scars until they were clinging to each other, scared and bleeding but determined to heal better this time, to not let there be so many jagged edges.

It was awkward, and painful, but the friendship that they’d acheived had been the perfect foundation.

Alex shuts down the final screen, then turns to find Michael already waiting for him at the ladder, fixing him with that same _look_ that’s always made Alex feel a little weak at the knees.

“You ready then?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “After you.”

Michael turns with a smirk, hauls himself up the ladder with an ease that makes Alex’s mouth feel dry.

His voice echoes back down a moment later. “I’ll get the lights after you’re up.”

As if Michael hasn’t been doing that for the last few weeks, as if he hasn’t been trying to subtly take care of Alex at every turn. As if Alex needed the reminder.

They get out to the cars and Michael leans against the truck, pats the passenger door and gestures Alex over. “C’mon, I’ll bring you back tomorrow to get your Jeep.”

“I’m fine to drive,” Alex says. “I wasn’t even falling asleep.”

Michael smiles. “I know, but I asked if you wanted to go for a ride and you said yes. Don’t back out on me now.”

Alex watches him carefully. “You really want to go for a drive? In the middle of the night?” Michael’s look doesn’t waver, if anything his eyes get ever softer, especially when Alex adds, “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“I’ll risk being a little tired at the junkyard if it means getting another date with you.”

Michael’s eyes look so hopeful behind the smile and Alex can’t help the way one of his eyebrows lifts, the way his tone turns playful. “Oh, so it’s a date?” He smiles and walks the last few steps up to Michael’s side. “So you weren’t just trying to get me to go home and sleep?”

“You still haven’t said no.” Michael grins and pulls open the passenger door, smiles even wider when Alex climbs in.

And that’s how he finds himself next to Michael in the pickup, driving down a dark, deserted road at close to one in the morning. That’s how he finds himself on his and Michael’s third date, fighting the ridiculous smile that keeps threatening to break out across his face, settling for reaching out and taking Michael’s hand instead, focusing on the way their fingers and knuckles lock together so perfectly.

Their first date had been safe, for all that Michael had had to take the plunge to ask Alex out to begin with. Things had been better between them, but there was still uncertainty, still the specter of all their mistakes looming up in the back of both of their minds. All the times Alex had walked away. Jesse Manes. The shame and fear.

That one, terrible time Michael had looked away. The drinking. The recklessness.

But he’d asked. And Alex had said yes. And they’d spent a simple afternoon together, driving a couple cities over to go to a park, walk around and eat ice cream in the melting sun.

Alex had taken the risk for the second date. Had picked Michael up and driven them back into down, parked in front of the Crashdown and grabbed Michael’s hand as they walked inside. He wiped ketchup from Michael’s face. He pressed his foot between Michael’s beneath the table.

There was a time when he would have been terrified to do that, would have seen his father in every shadow, waiting to tell him he wasn’t good enough, that he was a disgrace, that he was _wrong._ But now he’s learned to tune those thoughts out, or at least push them away to be dealt with later.

And the look on Michael’s face, the way his eyes at lit up the longer they sat there, the tentative smile that grew into something bright and wonderful when he reached across the table to take Alex’s hand and didn’t get pushed away, that made all the curious stares worth it.

“Hey.”

He looks over and finds Michael watching him.

“Where’d you go?”

Alex gives his hand a squeeze. “Nowhere, just thinking.” They’re even further out in the middle of nowhere and Alex has a suspicion that he knows where they’re going, or at least what they’re going to be doing once they get there.

Michael pulls off the side of the road a few minutes later and shuts off the engine, hopping out and going around to the back while Alex eases himself down onto the ground. His leg is a little stiff from sitting all day and a little sore from an entire day of wear. He hears Michael open the back hatch and makes his way there, laughing when he sees Michael spreading a couple blankets out over the truck bed.

“I knew it, you sap. Did you have this planned the whole time?”

Michael gets a cocky grin on his face and reaches down to help Alex up, pulling him a little closer than is probably strictly necessary once they’re both up in the bed.

“Might’ve made sure to throw a few extra things in the back of the truck today.”

Alex shakes his head, but knows Michael sees through him easily. Especially as they settle down on the blankets, backs against the cab, and Michael throws an arm around him as they stare up at the sky.

The stars are as beautiful as always. Hypnotizing in the way they fill so much of the sky with little pinpricks of light, drawing the eye everywhere and nowhere all at once, out into a great, vast darkness that’s suddenly begun to feel a lot smaller.

Having a real-life alien sat beside you will do that, he supposes.

It’s not long before they start reminiscing, talking about the first time they ever did this, back in high school when they were both so young, not truly innocent, but still full of hope. Alex tells Michael about looking up at the stars while stationed overseas, how it made him feel a little bit closer. Something goes horribly tight in his chest when Michael tells him about looking up at the stars and seeing _home_ , but then Michael turns to him and says he doesn’t see that anymore, that he’s found home somewhere else, somewhere much closer.

Alex swallows. They’re so suddenly so _close_. Michael’s face is barely an inch away, eyes looking at Alex like he’s something precious, and all Alex wants is to reach out and touch. To feel the warmth and strength and comfort that Michael takes with him everywhere.

Michael turns a bit more, puts one warm palm on the side of Alex’s neck. “Is this okay?” he whispers. And Alex doesn’t need to ask to know what he means. Doesn’t even have to say anything.

Michael’s mouth is just as perfect as he remembers. It’s hot and wet and all consuming, makes Alex forget everything else as Michael holds him close and takes him apart with just his lips, his tongue, a flash of teeth. He clutches at Michael’s jacket, grasps at his back, his hair, every part of him that he can reach until they’re both pulling away to gasp for air, foreheads pressed together, panting and laughing into the space between them.

Alex keeps one hand on Michael’s face, brings the other one up to thread through his hair, keep him steady as Alex presses one firm kiss to his mouth, then another, pulling away just as Michael starts to respond.

Michael whines and Alex huffs out a laugh.

“We’re not having sex in the back of your truck.”

Michael makes another disagreeing sound but relents, pulling away just long enough to get a better grip on Alex then manhandle him to the blankets. He drapes himself across Alex’s chest and clings like an octopus, one leg thrown over Alex’s thighs, urging him to stay. His hair tickles where he’s nuzzled up beneath Alex’s chin.

Alex flicks him on the forehead once, for propriety’s sake, but settles where Michael’s put him. He can look at the stars this way, but finds himself distracted, stroking a hand up and down Michael’s back, watching the pull of fabric and humming in approval when Michael settles more fully against him.

Everything is warm and comfortable and perfect. His body feels heavy and Michael is like a sated cat above him, lazy and content, eyelids drooping and head tilting to press lips just above Alex’s heart. Something is burning bright in his chest, making his whole body tingle, and he doesn’t need one of the DeLucas around to tell him that it’s hope. The same hope that Michael always manages to bring into his life, but this time it feels more real, more tangible. It’s not an idea he’s dreaming of, or a life he’s grasping for that’s just out of reach.

It’s just him, and Michael, coming back together despite everything, _because_ of everything. It feels like everything is finally falling into place.

He turns and presses a kiss to the top of Michael’s head, feels the way Michael’s breath hitches ever so slightly, the way his arms tighten around him. Alex pulls him in closer, until they’re pressed together as tight as can be, wraps his fingers in the fabric of Michael’s shirt to hold him there.

The stars are out and the world is quiet around them. It’s way too late for either of them to be up when they both know they’ve got work in the morning.

But Alex doesn’t pull away.

He just breathes Michael in and realizes with a wonderful, reaffirming kind of clarity that he doesn’t _want_ to. That he hopes Michael never lets go.

\--

_Their bodies shift, sliding against one another, hands grasping at every inch of available skin while their mouths meet hot and wet between them. Alex’s fingers finally find Michael’s hair, burying in the soft curls there and tugging, bringing Michael closer, closer, swallowing the moan that escapes from Michael’s lips. One of Michael’s hands has settled at the small of his back and Alex feels it like a brand, wants to sink into the touch and let it breathe fire up his spine._

_They rock together, legs intertwined, hips and chests alight with the warmth of bare skin. Michael sucks a kiss beneath Alex’s jaw and his hand drifts lower, fingers teasing at the top of Alex’s ass, slipping into the crease when Alex pushes his hips back to meet him._

_“Please.” Alex presses his face into Michael’s neck. His smell is stronger there and Alex already feels himself drowning in the headiness of sweat and heat and sex._

_Michael’s other hand comes down, grabs one cheek and holds him open, leaving Alex exposed and gasping while his fingers trail lower and circle over the entrance there._

_“You ready, baby?”_

_“Fuck, yes I—”_

_A door creaks and they both freeze. Alex can feel sand digging into his knees._

_“Alex.”_

_The voice makes everything go cold. Fear trickles in at the edges and Alex feels himself shaking, can hardly bring himself to turn his head and look._

_His father stares back at him, eyes blazing and hands already dark with blood._

_“I’ll teach you how to be a Manes man.” His eyes flicker to Michael. “To uphold the family legacy.” There’s a gun in his hand and Alex screams as it fires, feels everything explode in a white-hot flash of pain then disappears into a vacuum of pitch-black silence._

_Reality filters back in slowly. His ears ring and everything is blotchy, smeared at the edges, bleaching everything to white and grey. He scrambles to find Michael. Tries to reach out, to call his name, only to realize he’s choking on something warm and wet that he distantly recognizes as his own blood._

_“You always were a disappointment.” His father says. “Maybe that’s why no one ever sticks around.”_

_His eyes catch on a prone figure just a few feet away and its like the sun gets hotter, harsh glare visible even behind closed eyelids. Sweat runs down his face. Stings his eyes._

_Michael isn’t moving._

_Alex tries to stand, every part of him screaming to go to Michael, all too aware of his father looming just a few feet away, of the pain and death that always seem to follow the Manes family name. He falls to the ground. Chokes on another scream and looks down, sees the bloody mess that was once his leg and wants to be sick. Bile mixes with the blood and sand already coating his mouth._

_“Please,” he rasps. “Please, no.”_

_He tries to drag himself. The sand is hot and loose between his fingers, feels like he’s clawing at boiling water for all the good it does. He’s sinking down. Trapped._

_His father stands over Michael, says something into a radio and suddenly more men appear, tugging and swarming until Michael is restrained, shoved into a sterile white room with a window for Alex to watch as they beat him. As thick curls fall to a pile on the floor. As Michael cries._

_He can’t tell if it’s linoleum or sand beneath his back as he lays frozen on the ground, struggling to breathe through the panic in his chest._

_His father turns, looks down at him with a detached expression. “Disgraceful.” He steps down on Alex’s chest, presses down until Alex is sure the treads of his boot are scarred into his skin. It gets even harder to breathe. Just gasping little breaths that make his head swim._

_“Alex.”_

_That’s Michael now, and Alex forces himself to look towards the sound, locks eyes with Michael through the glass just as a guard jabs a taser into Michael’s side. Michael cries out and Alex shouts with him._

_Shame and guilt overwhelm him, paralyze him. He’s not enough. Couldn’t keep Michael safe. Just dragged him down into the filth and pain._

_His eyes stay trained on Michael even as his father beats him, kicks and punches until Alex’s entire body flares with pain. Finally, a hand wraps around his throat, presses down until Alex is choking, entire body jerking as his lungs burn. There’s not enough air. He’s going to die._

_“Alex!” Michael shouts his name and the ground shakes. Crumbles._

Alex wakes up with a gasp, sits up and drags in as much air as his lungs will let him.

His body feels disconnected. Like he’s floating. There’s sweat drying on his skin, making his shirt stick, raising goosebumps on his arms. He shudders and wipes at his face, is vaguely embarrassed at the tears he finds there.

“Alex?”

Michael’s voice is soft. The lights are on in the room and Alex can clearly see where Michael is watching him from the other side of the bed. His face is carefully blank, but his eyes can’t hide the fear and hurt.

He doesn’t try to touch. Alex never lets him, never wants to be touched after waking up with the feeling of other people’s hands on his skin, tugging and pulling and causing pain.

There’s always the guilt, too. Michael shouldn’t have to take care of him when he’s dealing with so much trauma of his own. Shouldn’t have to be ready in case Alex comes awake swinging. (He has. And Michael had bled before he’d learned to be ready.) Here, in their bed, Michael shouldn’t _have_ to be ready. He should be safe.

He sucks in a shaky breath, reaches out and takes Michael’s hand, tries to give a reassuring squeeze but he’s shaking so badly there’s hardly a point.

Michael holds on regardless.

“You back?” He asks. Always so gentle.

“Yeah, fuck.” Alex groans and wipes at his face again. “Sorry, I should’ve slept on the couch.”

Michael shakes his head, gets that fond and exasperated look on his face that always makes Alex feel out of his depth.

“Don’t apologize. I would’ve just slept on the floor right there with you.”

Alex stares at him, can picture it so easily: Michael sprawled out between the couch and the coffee table, stubbornly refusing to let Alex be alone. He swallows. Tugs at Michael’s hand until he gets the hint and moves closer, kneels by Alex’s side. Alex doesn’t let himself think about it, just turns and buries his face in Michael’s stomach, breathes him in and lets the smell of soap and skin and Michael wash away the coppery tang of blood. Michael’s hands land tentatively on his back.

He feels warm and safe and loved. His father’s voice is cruel in the back of his mind, saying he’ll never deserve it, but Michael is rubbing at his back, and _he_ says Alex is okay, that he’s safe. Alex chooses to believe him.

He sinks further into Michael’s hold, keeps his breaths as steady and deep as he can make them.

When he’s mostly calmed down, Michael leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Wanna try to sleep?”

Alex shakes his head. “Just be another nightmare.”

Michael’s hands keep up their steady rhythm on his back. “Okay.”

They stay like that for a few minutes longer, Alex’s breaths evening out, his heart slowing, his body going numb and heavy from the adrenaline crash. He focuses on the feel of Michael’s hands through his t-shirt, the warmth of his skin and the slight scratch of hair at his stomach.

They sit there long enough that his sweat cools and a shiver runs down his spine, a small sound escaping his lips as he presses in closer to Michael’s heat. One of Michael’s hands tugs at the hem of his shirt. A question. Alex nods and pulls back enough for Michael to guide the fabric over his head.

He sits there, clings to Michael in the too-harsh light of their room in the early hours of the morning. It reminds him of the sun. The blinding heat. He feels sand pressing into his skin.

A sob slips past his lips.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’ve got you.” But Alex doesn’t miss the way his arms get fractionally looser, the way he’s making sure Alex doesn’t feel trapped. Feels held, but not held _down._

Usually, Alex pulls away.

Usually, he buries everything so deep down that he doesn’t allow himself to cry.

Usually, the taste of blood and the scorch of the sand, the angry shouts of his father and Michael’s screams aren’t quite so overpowering.

It’s been so long since he’s had a night this bad. And he should’ve seen it coming. _Did_ see it coming but was too in denial to admit it. He’d felt on edge all day, like he had to be constantly looking his shoulder, like he was back at war.

His dreams had made that feeling a reality.

The frustration overwhelms him, mixing with everything else, all the emotions he’s too tired and confused to really comprehend. He’s _tired_ and scared and Michael still hasn’t let go.

So Alex holds tighter, feels Michael hold on tighter too.

“Alright,” Michael says, presses his face into the top of Alex’s head, rocks them slightly. “Alright, I’ve got you, Alex. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Alex getting tears and snot all over Michael’s stomach, but when he finally calms down enough to breathe he still feels sand rubbing against his skin. The lights still feel too much like the sun.

He shifts, tries to push the sheets further away, like that will somehow push the lingering fear away as well. And it’s like Michael reads his mind, the way he presses a kiss to the side of Alex’s face and asks, “Wanna go watch TV?”

Alex nods. But he doesn’t move, either, just loops his arms around Michael’s neck in silent permission. He’ll deal with any lingering embarrassment in the morning, right now he just wants Michael, wants to leave the room and the last sticky tendrils of the nightmare behind.

Michael waits a beat, then eases them off the bed, gets Alex in his arms and walks into the living room, settles them on the couch with Alex tucked securely in his lap, against his chest and beneath his chin. Something else Alex decides to worry about in the morning, not now when everything finally feels warm and safe. His crutches float down to the floor beside them. A way out, if he needs them.

Michael puts on a movie, something made for TV that Alex doesn’t bother watching, just presses his hot, tear-stained face into Michael’s neck, curls his fingers around the gentle curve of Michael’s bicep. Michael’s arms are a fortress around him and for the first time in as long as he can remember, Alex lets himself feel protected.

“I’ve got you,” Michael murmurs, pressing the occasional kiss to Alex’s forehead, his temple, the slope of a shoulder.

Alex’s eyes drift shut, head going heavy as Michael cards gentle fingers through his hair. Night bleeds into morning.

Michael never lets go.

\--

There’s something comforting about the smell of food cooking on the stove, a sense of domesticity that means safety, peace, and potentially someone to share it with. Alex is by no means a chef, but he’s come to appreciate the meditative quality of working in the kitchen. Before, when it was just him and his dad and his brothers, they hardly ever had home-cooked meals. His dad thought Manes men were above working in the kitchen, so it was TV dinners, occasional lessons with the grill, or even army rations if Jesse was feeling particularly eager to shape his boys into men he could be proud of.

Alex never really shared that belief, would always make himself mac and cheese or pasta when his dad was away and revel in the warmth of something he’d made. Now, Alex has a fair amount of practice with cooking, but keeps it simple, rotating and altering the same staple recipes that have kept him going through the years.

Tonight is pasta, whole-wheat noodles with vegetables and ground beef added to the sauce. Their kitchen smells like onions, garlic, and a number of spices when Michael walks in. He takes one deep breath that Michael can actually _hear,_ then shouts from the entryway.

“Fuck, that smells so good.”

“It’s just pasta,” Alex calls back, voice lowering as he hears Michael coming around the corner. “Nothing fancy.”

Michael is the one who likes to have fun in the kitchen, make a mess and try new recipes that require ten different bowls and multiple hours to make. Sometimes it tastes like heaven; sometimes they need a few beers to wash it down. Regardless, Alex always loves when Michael cooks. Loves watching him move around the kitchen, powers free and spices floating while he moves shirtless to whatever music he’s got playing on the laptop, recipe pulled up on screen.

“Well you know me,” Michael says, leaning against the doorjamb. “So fancy.”

His shirt and jeans are both ripped up and old, covered in a mixture of dirt and grease that never really comes out in the wash. His hair is still covered by his black cowboy hat, but Alex knows from experience that it’s a sweaty mess of curls underneath.

Alex rolls his eyes and looks away, as much to hide the sudden flush on his cheeks as it is to check on the sauce, giving it a few stirs as Michael comes up behind him, puts both hands on Alex’s hips.

“What? I don’t look like an edible gold and caviar kind of man?”

“You know exactly what you look like,” Alex shoots back, turning around in Michael’s grip and huffing at the smug grin on the other man’s face.

“I know,” Michael murmurs. He presses a quick kiss to Alex’s frown. “I’m a mess. But I’m a _hot_ mess. You gonna let me shower today?”

Alex eyes him, takes in the sweat dripping down the side of his neck and the way his shirt sticks just slightly at the shoulders.

He hums and pulls off Michael’s hat, presses it back into his chest. “Go stick your head under the sink, change shirts, then we can eat.”

“Sure you don’t want a snack first?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows and leans down to give Alex another kiss, grunting slightly in surprise when Alex twists his hands into the hem of his shirt and drags him closer, presses in hot and open-mouthed. It takes Michael a second to catch up, to meet Alex’s tongue with his own, eyes closed on a groan as Alex pulls back and whispers _missed you_ into the space between them.

Michael’s mouth is red and half-open, eyes just fluttering open as Alex pats his chest and steps away. “Now go change.” Alex pushes him towards the door and turns back to the sauce, resisting the urge to lift his hand and wipe at the lingering wetness on his lips. He traces over it with his tongue instead. Hears Michael groan from the doorway.

“You’re killing me here.”

He leaves a moment later and Alex finishes up while he’s gone, getting everything onto plates and into Tupperware while he’s got the chance. Because when Michael comes back in the room with that same macho cowboy swagger, hair damp but still smelling like sweat, Alex doesn’t waste any time before getting his hands on him.

He backs Michael up against the fridge and sighs into the way their mouths touch. It’s comfortable and familiar but still sends heat dripping down his spine. Makes him melt into the way Michael cups his face, arch into the calloused fingers teasing just above his waistline.

They pull away panting, smiling, edging on laughter as they both lean in for just one more kiss that turns into two, then three.

Finally, they sit down to dinner.

It’s comfortable and easy, talking about their days, their friends, and the coming week. Their legs brush beneath the table and it feels like they’ve been doing this all of their lives and not just the few months since Michael’s moved in. But that’s always how it’s been with Michael, always felt like two pieces coming together. Connection too deep to describe. Although Michael’s choice of _cosmic_ seems fairly fitting.

He doesn’t see a future without this. Doesn’t _want_ a future without this.

Something clicks into place.

It feels almost tangible, like a release of tension. Like finally finding the solution to an equation. The euphoria of _knowing._ Of being sure.

He makes sure to school his face, smiles at Michael’s offer to do the dishes, laughs and rolls his eyes as Michael flicks water around the kitchen. As they stack the dishes to dry.

He asks if Michael wants to go out and watch the stars tonight, since the weather’s so nice, and Michael is quick to agree.Michael grabs the bundle of blankets and pillows they keep by the door for nights just like this, looks back over his shoulder to make sure Alex is coming too.

Alex smiles. Feels sort of like he’s floating as he tells Michael to go ahead and get set up, that he has to grab something from their room. The small, black box fits easily into the pocket of his jeans.

Michael is waiting for him outside, pulls him down onto the blanket immediately and gets them settled without hardly an inch of space between. His hand rests dangerously close to Alex’s pocket, but Alex can’t find it in himself to care, just presses himself even closer to Michael’s side and breathes him in, takes in this moment and how perfectly they fit together.

They stare up at the stars together, Michael’s body a furnace against the nighttime cold, listening to the low hum of bugs and wind and life around them. That feeling of rightness still hasn’t left, still sits wrapped around Alex like a fog.

He always wants to be the one Michael comes home to, wants Michael to be his home, too.

He’s trying to think of the words to say. Has never been good at the grand gestures like Michael, at letting go, being emotional and vulnerable in the way he thinks Michael deserves.

Michael shifts beside him, presses his lips to Alex’s temple and says, “I could do this forever.”

Alex’s heart stutters in his chest.

He takes a deep breath, tilts his face up just enough to get a good look at Michael’s eyes and asks, “Why don’t we?” He sits up slightly, props himself up on an elbow and puts his other hand on Michael’s chest, feels the way his heart picks up speed as well. “I want to be right here, doing this, in five years, in fifty years.”

There’s a dawning kind of awe on Michael’s face as Alex digs in his jean pocket, pulls out the ring box and sits up all the way in order to open it.

“Michael Guerin,” he says. “Will you marry me?”

He’s not quite sure how it happens, but he blinks and he’s staring up at the sky, Michael hovering over him and kissing over every inch of his face.

“Fuck, yes.” He murmurs it between kisses, keeps murmuring _yes, yes, yes_ until Alex is full with it, feels like he might burst with all the warmth in his chest.

Finally, Michael presses their foreheads together, breathing the same air and holding Alex close. “How did you know?” He pushes some of Alex’s hair back away from his face. “Tonight was— it felt _perfect_.”

“I don’t know, it just felt perfect to me too.”

They both laugh, a little breathless, and Michael leans down to press a kiss to Alex’s mouth before flopping down on his chest, clingy and completely unashamed.

“You know,” Michael says after a moment. “I’ve been saving up to buy a ring. Was gonna get it next week.”

That same, overwhelming feeling of rightness washes over him and he tightens his arms around Michael’s back, opens his mouth to say something but stops when Michael groans and buries his face against his neck.

“Oh fuck, Iz is going to be so pissed when I tell her you asked first. She was all geared up to help me pick something out and make some crazy proposal plan.”

Alex laughs, can’t help himself, not even when Michael picks himself up enough to pout at him. “Yeah, laugh it up. You’re not the one who has to call her.” He wedges himself even closer to Alex’s side. “You have to protect me.”

“Are you not going to let me put the ring on you then?” He asks. He stares pointedly at where Michael’s hands have disappeared up beneath his shirt. “Because you’re going to have to let go for me to do that.”

Michael lets out a frankly pathetic sounding whine.

Eventually, he pries himself away and rolls onto his back, stares over at Alex with a blush high on his cheeks. “I want you to put it on.”

So Alex sits up, grabs the ring box from where it had landed on the blanket and grabs Michael’s hand once he’s sat up as well. The ring is a simple, thick gold band and it slides easily over Michael’s finger, sits perfectly just above the knuckle.

They both take a moment to look at it, to feel the vastness of the sky above them, the darkness around them, and realize that somehow, despite it all, they’d found each other.

Two pieces who want to be together.

And they’ll never have to let go again.


End file.
